


pretty tinder

by ishkabibble_bafflegab



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: F/M, anime physics have been liberally exploited, deal with it gajeel, erza is the angry statue glaring gajeel down on his way to no-no violence, gajeel just wants to drown himself in booze, gajeel&levy's disastrous first encounter, levy likes it in the library, lily ain't havin' it, lily ships gajevy, ohyes, paper cuts and dust bunnies, pre-&post-timeskip, standard gajeel-thinkpan warnings apply, the 'fucks' floweth freely, the two-parter that became a six-parter because REASONS, there will be make-out omakes, this is a shadow gear appreciation fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishkabibble_bafflegab/pseuds/ishkabibble_bafflegab
Summary: Per orders, one singular spectacular f*ckin' fire, comin' RIGHT up. ::Gajeel/Levy::





	1. better a fairy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rusky boz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rusky+boz).



ran across a rusky boz (rbozdottumblrdotcom) illustration recently and got nostalgic for gajevy. rboz is a straight-up GIFT, y'all, go check out her bootyful (intended emphasis on 'booty,' heh heh) arts.

/-/

i've wanted to write/read this fic for _freaking ever_. because as much as i obsessively love this pairing, it's hard to forget that, once upon a time, he put her in the _blosh-fribbling hospital_. essentially without compunction. but this all happened off-screen/off-page, which, in my humble opining onion, is entirelytoomuch missed story potential.

hence!  
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Tiny scrap of a thing, blue hair flared out around her face like she's in the habit of stickin' her fingers in light sockets, eyes big and brown and disarmingly bright; there's a still shrewdness to her gaze he almost completely overlooks.

He might yet've just let her slip past, but those eyes of hers flicker over his person, linger for a heartbeat longer'n they ought'a on the black brand magically stamped onto his arm, and he knows -before he ever lays eyes on the Fairy mark set against the skin of her bare shoulder- this undersized sprite is just the spark he's lookin' for.

Trashin' their guild hall turns out not to've been nearly enough to incite Makarov's cream puffs to retaliatory action. The fairy punks may not've _appreciated_ the unsolicited home make-over, but he should'a known it'd take more than his unique aesthetic sensibilities to pull the pansies into an all-out war.

Now he's thinkin' maybe the ' _more_ ' this situation calls for is a little good, ol'-fashioned dragon-on-shrimp brutality. Every mage in the damn country's heard the (undoubtedly exaggerated) rumors: that the fairies are an unstoppable, astonishingly destructive force of nature when their nakama are threatened. He finds himself suddenly keen to put these rumors to the test. And here's just the pretty tinder he needs, all but served up on a silver platter, ripe for the threatening.

Sadistic excitement splits his face with glee; per orders, one singularly spectacular fuckin' fire, comin' _riiiight_ up.

/-/

Half a heartbeat before he means to grab her, tug her into an alley, and make with the beatin' her black to match the blue, she checks her stride, gingerly cocks her head to one side, and then has the unimaginable gall to smile up at him and ask him if he's lost.

She pinches a lock of hair curlin' outta the flower-studded band stretched across her forehead, and her expression's open, but not vacant, and definitely not unguarded. The smell of magic permeates the air, filling his nostrils. There's a spell at the ready, on the tip of her tongue, in the steady tension of her fingers.

Her sunny candor is pretense, subterfuge. Shorty's takin' his measure.

 _Shrimp's no ditz, then_ , he idly notes. 'Lost' is how she's marked him, yet the subtext clearly reads 'suspicious.' Perhaps this means the fairy trashes aren't so naively trusting as the stories make 'em about to be; maybe his pro bono remodeling job's had its intended effect after all, and the lot of 'em are hot n' rarin' for payback, just waiting for a culprit and an opportunity.

Gajeel's only too happy to provide both.

"A'int lost." He replies, slickin' a shit-eating grin across his mouth. Then, as his eyes rake the length of a copper drainpipe just beyond the ridge of her shoulder, gaze briefly, unavoidably drawn to the shapely curve of her hip- "Think I'm right where I ought'a be." Frowning both at how uncomfortably like a shitty pick-up line that must've sounded, and at the unaccountable flush of the Midget's cheeks, "Shit day ta' be a fairy, Shrimp." She bites her lip, swallows hard, and her fear hangs thick n' heavy between them. She trembles, steels herself.

"Better a fairy than a phantom - _any day_." She's more direct than her delicate features suggest. Sharp _and_ fiesty, this one. An exciting combination, and one that warns him not to take this particular female lightly; reminds 'im a bit of a certain always-gloomy rain mage back at Phantom HQ, whose slight build and general air of tragic dejection expertly conceal the biggest, fattest ball of bugfuck **crazy** he's prob'ly ever seen. No tellin' what manner o' insanity the Midget's hidin' under that fork-in-the-toaster updo. Growing bolder still, "And while we're on the subject -unless you're here to offer terms of reconciliation on behalf of your guild, I think it's best you leave. Immediately."

Curiosity pricked, "Or else...?"

"Or else I'll have to escort you out myself. And I can't promise I'll be gentle." His laughter's ugly with derision, intentionally abrasive. Bristling, she squares her shoulders, rises to her full, unimpressive height, and he grins to see her expression, fierce, resolve struck from iron. " _Try me_ , you phantom bastard."

_Shrimp's got a spine!_

Empty bluster or not, it's one helluva delightful surprise.

"Gihik - **the** phantom bastard." He corrects. Shorty's shorter-lived bravery expires when he reaches toward her, and she visibly cowers, which does nothing but increase her already dramatic height disadvantage. She's mistakin' his intent here, but terrorizin' the pipsqueak's kinda the whole point of this exercise, so he doesn't bother to reassure her he's only here for violence of the brawling combat variety. Instead, he takes another, deliberately encroaching step toward her, only to wrap his fingers around the drain pipe immediately behind her, crushin' it in his hand easy as he might snap a twig. With a single, sharp twist, he cleanly sunders a full section of the tubing, and proceeds without ceremony to fit the fractured sheeting into his mouth.

" _Gajeel_." She breathes, his name a whispered curse. The revelation of his identity 'pparently isn't a happy one. "The Iron Dragon Slayer." It's a quick deduction -an obvious deduction, maybe, since he ain't exactly bein' subtle, but still _quick_. 'Course, maybe he shouldn't be so surprised she'd caught on straight away; what, with a dragon slayer of their very own, he s'pposes she's probably more accustomed than most to havin' friends with...unconventional appetites. (Even sideways thought of the Salamander bastard sets his blood boilin' with anticipation.)

He doesn't respond for a long moment, wherein the only sound is the eerie-sweet screech of his teeth shearing through copper. It's partially for effect, and also partly 'cause Metalicana'd been pretty fuckin' strict about not talkin' with his mouth full. When the silence stretches on for longer'n he actually means to let it, "What do you want?" Shrimp's voice is high n' clear n' hard as fuckin' steel, which might'a been imposin' if she weren't, well, a shrimp. Or if she weren't so obviously terrified, now that she knows who she's really up against. Now that she knows she can't win.

At length, lazily, "'Says I want 'nything?" Her brow tics in irritation. He leers.

" _What_ do you _want_ , Gajeel?" She says his name like she's been sayin' it forever, with the forbearing exasperation of long acquaintance. The unexpected familiarity throws him off-kilter, though only briefly.

"I'm here ta' deliver a message, is all. From my guild, to yours."

Takin' his meaning straight away, "Destroying our home wasn't enough?" Her 'home.' Not her 'guild hall,' her ' _home_.' Sentimental fuckin' fairies...

Chewin' thoughtfully, "'pparently not." He swallows the last of the drainpipe, then starts limberin' up for the job, crackin' his neck and his knuckles, rollin' his shoulders back, all the while sizin' her up with a critical eye. He can't tell by lookin' at her what manner o' magic she uses, so it's important he pays attention to everything. The way she moves, the way she breathes -anything might be a tip-off. But honestly speakin', all he's seein' is a girl who maybe ain't so smart after all, bein' so tiny n' vulnerable and wanderin' around at night with no escort less than two days after he'd laid waste to her guild.

For the full breadth of a moment, he considers walkin' away, finding some other fairy shit to pulverize. Surely there'll be no sport in this, no joy. But the insanity passes quickly, and the measured step he takes toward her this time's meant to warn he's ready to get to business.

"You don't have to do this." She says suddenly, frantically. Gajeel briefly halts his advance and frowns, a touch disappointed in her 'til he realizes she's not about to start begging -Shorty's just buyin' herself time, readying herself for an attack. "You'll regret it if you do. Maybe not here, maybe not today, but I swear to you, you _will_ be sorry." Determined intent creases her brow as she locks her arms out in front of her, magic cracklin' at her fingertips, and he abruptly remembers his earlier decision not to underestimate her. Sordid anticipation lights through him; perhaps he'll get a decent fight outta this one, yet.

" _Gihik_...we'll see, Shrimp."

It's the last thing either of them says before the street explodes.  
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pre-panther lily gajeel makes me SO SAD. HE JUST NEEDS A FLUFFLY KITTY FOR TO LOVING, GAIS.

('fluffly...?')

/-/

[next chapter: dramatic misgivings! justice speeches! high-octane action! unconscionable violence! accidental groping!]

also, in case some of ye' be worried i've forgotten about jet&droy, NEVERFEAR. they're on their way.

...probably.


	2. touch o' suspense

Gajeel doesn't hear the spell or incantation if there is one, but when the street explodes, he assumes the worst and braces automatically for an impact that never comes.

 _No incendiary_ , he determines, noting the distinct lack of deadly projectiles and fire, _just a loud fuckin' smokescreen_. In the split-second his battle instincts take to flounder their way to the conclusion that the Midget's spell is harmless, a thick cloud to obstruct sight and nothin' more, she's already snaked her way outta his reach and vanished into the fog. He lunges blindly into the stuff with both hands, hopin' to score a fistful of fabric or scrawny fairy neck. Instead, his fingers graze something yielding n' feathery-soft, and in the shocked silence of a billion neurons firin' all at once, he realizes he's got a hand inadvertently tangled in her hair, and almost forgets to grab her.

 _Almost_. At the last second, his fingers snap into a tight fist against her scalp, and she screams, and small, warm fingers tug desperately at his wrist when he starts draggin' her back, but her struggle's pointless; it's painfully obvious Shorty ain't equipped for actual, physical combat.

Through the slowly-clearin' smoke, he can just make out the vibrant blue of her crown, the pale column of her neck, the flash of loud cloth, and as he pulls her irresistibly toward him, his gaze lights on her shoulder blade, where impressed into the cool cream of her skin's that damn Fairy brand, stark white, unmistakable.

"- _hole_ ," he (barely) hears her say, makin' him think he's just missed the more interestin' part of a choice personal dig -'til the ground under his feet up n' fucking _disappears_ , and he drops unceremoniously through the street onto his ass, inadvertently losin' his grip on the Shrimp in the process. He does make one final, instinctive grab as he plummets, thinkin' he might get lucky and pull her down with him, but it's too late, she's already flyin' away fast as her feet'll carry her, and he misses her by half a damn block.

He smirks, amused, perceiving through the darkness that the hole's just deep enough to be too tall for him to simply jump up, grab the lip, and haul himself out. He hopes, for her sake, that she hadn't really thought this pitiful pit could hold him.

Pulling his arms back and aimin' his palms flat at the ground, he feels that familiar eerie-thrilling phase of flesh and bone to dense, refined steel, his hands and forearms transfigured into thick, solid clubs, which he jabs - _hard_ \- into paved earth at the same time he wills the metal to stretch and accelerate, fast; the opposing force sends him rocketing into the air, where he's got a good vantage to spot the actual word, 'HOLE,' slapped across the cobblestone like a giant stencil, through the finally fading haze. He chews over a theory as he makes a series of quick and purposefully destructive mid-air adjustments, and finds it confirmed when he lands clear of the subterranean prison in time to see his Spark already halfway down the road, arms sweeping through sharp, controlled motions as she deftly weaves her way through the sleeping marketplace. In the next instant, she snaps her hands skyward, and a glowy, flickerin' red 'FLARE' erupts against the night sky with a concussive _**CRACK**_.

 _Letter magic_. He might'a known. He's crossed paths with a Script Mage or twelve in his time, though he can't generalize much about 'em beyond a tendency toward craftiness and unpredictability. And weakness. So far, Shrimp fits the bill.

Gajeel isn't worried so much about catchin' up to her; she's a nimble little thing, but seein' as he can just slingshot himself across the street and clear the distance in a handful of seconds, he doesn't bother himself to hurry off chasin' her straight away. What's life without a touch o' suspense, anyway? Keeps him sharp. Builds anticipation. Sweetens the pay-off.

He takes a moment to breathe the air, and to drink in the horrified astonishment of a gathering crowd of townsfolk, likely drawn by all the ruckus he'd made smashin' up nearby stalls and storefronts. The lot of 'em scurry away 'bout as fast as they'd come, and he turns them easily from mind, calls himself back to purpose.

Which wavers, fuckin' _again_ , when he moves to finally pursue her and instead accidentally snags his gaze on a long, thin strip of check-patterned fabric, lyin' ripped and twisted in the street. The previously bright spray of flowers along one end's mottled n' soggy with mud, all flopped over and droopy and generally fuckin' tragic-lookin'. He imagines this must be what kickin' a puppy feels like.

Never one to overthink things, he doesn't question the sudden impulse to pick up the Midget's much-abused headband, he just indulges it, winds the cloth once around his knuckles, and takes off after her, refusing outright to tangle with the dragon-sized _**WHY**_ knockin' around in his skull.

/-/

Moments later, Gajeel's all but forsaken any tentative sorry feelings he might've entertained on Shorty's behalf. Somehow, the 'handful of seconds' it should'a taken him to run her down has stretched on for a fuck-motherin' eternity; soon as he clears one painful or otherwise humiliating obstacle, he can be sure there're a dozen or more to follow, already in place to trip him up. Can't take three goddamn steps without springin' some sneaky-ass trap she's laid -like, for instance, when he first goes catapultin' after her, and he stumbles across some invisible waylay point or other and has to spend the next several, extremely suspenseful seconds dodging a sudden onslaught of 'ROCK's as they shoot outta the dark from every direction like Shrimp-sized bullets. One or four come 'bout a hair fuckin' shy of taking his head clean off his shoulders, but in the end he manages to smash or evade most of 'em, and comes away with nothin' worse than a couple scrapes and a light dusting of rock ash.

Then there's the harmless yet irresistible column of 'WIND' that blows him off-course, and carries him over his mark by damn near the whole market. And the ripe fuckin' 'GAS' that glows a bright, toxic green as it surrounds him in a rancid cloud...and does ultimately nothing but slow him down and come uncomfortably close to makin' him lose his lunch. And there's no forgettin' the 'STORM' that splits the horizon with a thunderous clap, complete with torrential rain and lightning -the latter of which would'a flash-fried him if he hadn't done some fast fuckin' thinking n' remembered he's got a second skin for just such occasions. _Dragon_ skin, which no pussy-ass ordinary lightning could possibly damage; might singe him a bit, sure, maybe make him feel kinda warm and tingly for a spell, too, but hurt him? No chance.

Hell, Metalicana loved storms; geezer could fly around for hours, followin' the thunderhead, smackin' bolts at livestock or the larger, fiercer creatures of the Wilds, snappin' up his crispy-charboiled prize in a maw the size of a damn bed n' breakfast, and cacklin' like a maniac all the while. _Sadistic old bastard_ , he remembers fondly. The Old Man would'a gotten a kick outta the Shrimp's impromptu tempest -hell, even _he's_ a touch impressed by the scale and potential lethality of her magic.

Which is why, though the storm doesn't -and can't- hurt him, it does decide him on continuing this pursuit on foot, because impressive or not, he ain't gettin' fuck-all anywhere bein' tossed around over the bazaar like a helpless fuckin' ragdoll. He's too damn conspicuous when he's airborne -a foot chase'll afford the cover of carts and buildings and a deeper, more sinister kinda darkness, make it more difficult to pin down his exact location. With this one, seems it's best to stay low and outta sight 'til he's right on top of her -which, if he can manage to pull his thumbs out of his own ass for one fuck-forsaken minute, should be very, _very_ soon.

And when he does finally catch the little firebrand, he intends on inspiring some sorry feelings in _her_ , of an uglier and more lasting ilk.

/-/

She leaves a scent trail a mile wide, so he closes in on her pretty quick, and stealthily readies himself for the first assault. At a junction of intersecting streets, fronted on all sides by smithies and armorists' shops, where a larger-than-life statue of a stern-looking woman simple wearing plate mail stands glowering down on what feels eerily like _him specifically_ , the smell of his mark -sweat and fear and...paper?- thickens. She's close.

To the north, the junction pours out into a wide, circular space, in the middle of which stands a fountain with squat, stone flowers along its base. To the west, there's a stretch of novelty shops with such imaginative signs as 'Curious Curios' and 'Horace Hobknob's Knick-knacks, Bric-a-Bracs, and Thingamajigs' and 'Granny Gewgaws' Magical Emporium.' The Shrimp's trail somehow forks in both directions, which tells him she backtracked here, maybe deliberately. It's impossible to determine which trail extends further -meaning she'd run a significant distance down one path before she'd turned back and made her way 'round to the other. Meaning she probably has a pretty good idea how keen his sense of smell is (again, likely thanks to her familiarity with the Salamander), and precisely how to neutralize this advantage.

Unfortunately for the Shrimp, this ain't exactly Gajeel's first poker game, and his preternatural sense of smell sure as shit ain't the only ace up his sleeve. He's just getting started, and he's willin' to bet his much-beloved guitar that his oh-so-clever Spark doesn't have the first damn clue _what_ he's capable of, how vastly different from and undeniably superior to that useless Dragneel prick he is.

He crouches, sweeps loose dust from the cobblestones at his feet, and punches a steel-sheathed fist straight through the earth, to the thick sewage lines he can detect just below the surface. Then, he reaches out, finger-shovels his way past some final layers of rock and dry, packed dirt, and sets the flesh of his right palm against the filth-crusted metal sheath of the line, closes his eyes and listens. The vibrations are subtle at this depth, but he's got a good ear and a specific set of vectors to focus in on, and it's late -the people who're out are drastically outnumbered by the ones all a-snug in their beds, and there ain't but one of 'em racin' across the marketplace at a dead sprint.

"Found you." He gloats to himself, even as a part of him marvels at her stamina -she's been gunning it ( _and_ blitzkriegin' him with spells) for what must be goin' on five or six whole minutes.

She's takin' a roughly westerly course, following passages between stalls and buildings. After a beat, he realizes she must be bound for her guild; he recalls following a similar course when he'd visited the site himself, and figures it's as likely a place as any for her to flee. He means to head due west, and cut her off some quarter of a kilometer from here, where he estimates their paths'll cross. And he'll be coming from above -keeping quietly to roof tops and the like, that is, instead of flying around in the air in plain fuckin' sight.

He'll get the drop on her yet, he resolves, absently tightening his grip around the soiled silk of the headband. No way this fairy shakes him again.

/-/

She shakes him, _again_.

He doesn't know how, but she hears him coming, isn't even half-a-whit frightful when he falls outta the sky right in front of her. On the contrary, she's ready for him, and he doesn't even have time to (literally) steel himself before he's slamming through a 'WALL' thick as he is. He still craters right through it, 'course, but it _smarts_ , and he'd wager it can't look 'specially fuckin' dignified, either. Gajeel catches the pearly flash of her teeth, mouth upturned with wry, impish triumph -but she spins away, the grin vanishes, and then so does she, around yet _another fucking corner_.

Slippery as a damn eel, this one.

Gajeel springs to his feet and tears right after her, anticipating and avoiding the trap 'BOMB' that comes hissing toward him as he does so. The spell still detonates, though, an instant later when it strikes the faded wooden sign of the shop at his back, and _spectacularly_ at that, rendering his triumphal evasion a pointless maneuver. This time, the explosion is _very_ real, and throws him twenty, maybe thirty meters, slams him skull first into the ground. Even encased in steel as he is, the impact rattles his teeth painfully, brings him brief, excruciating pause.

When he recovers, it's to the unexpected sight of half the street, blown to _total shit_. He grins, irresistibly giddy at the unnecessary destruction of it all. She's not pullin' shots for safety's sake -hers or the market's. (It's a while, yet, 'fore he'll come to learn that this city is special, one-of-a-kind in its familiarity with and ability to sustainably withstand apocalypse-grade property damage.)

Reinvigorated by the Shrimp's willingness to play it fast and loose with her magic, he charges back into action, and has her again in his sights just as she breaches the outer perimeter of the bazaar. He knows he's likely got only seconds to spare before he inadvertently activates another spell, so he hits the corner hard and immediately looses a barrage of high-velocity iron spears that rip through the intervening space between them in a tight knot of uncomfortably **substantial** seconds -and _barely_ miss impaling her at the hip and shoulder when she mysteriously de-fucking-materializes before his very eyes.

The spears pass without effect through empty air, mangle only a fetid pair of dumpsters at the end of what he's only now realizing is an alley, and in the disorienting aftermath of watching her apparently phase out of existence, the only thought in his mind is that he'd nearly run her through. That he might well've killed her.

Except he didn't, she's not dead, she's -she's, she's fucking _somewhere_ , he can smell her!

His sudden, insane preoccupation with the relative safety of the very girl he'd just tried to pinion to a wall lasts only a fraction of an instant, but it's long enough to unsettle him, to confound and anger him, to make him hesitate, for a breath, a blink -which, as he _well-fucking-knows_ , is also plenty long enough for all hell to break loose.  
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writing this encounter has turned out to be much, much more difficult than anticipated. mostly, the challenge has been trying to figure out how to approach the Upcoming Brutality in such a way that i'm not left feeling hate-stab-murder feelings for gajeel when i'm finished. this chapter happened as a result of my reluctance to actually tackle the tricky f*cked-upedness that is shadow gear's beatdown...

*procrastination in progress*

/-/

[next chapter: jet & droy! laaaate to the party!]


	3. a quicksilver moment

also, just so you know, the profanity -insanely- has actually *increased* in this chapter. and there's some...gruesome-ish violence. and not much in the way of redemption for gajeel in the aftermath.

you have been warned.

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 _Rookie fuckin' mistake_ , Gajeel will later reflect, when he inevitably replays this portion of the fight in his mind after a few rounds at the pub.

Absorbed as he is for a _single fucking instant_ by his baffling concern for the Shrimp's well-being, he registers the soft tenor of her voice (at first) only insofar as it verifies what his nose has already confirmed, which is that she's fit as a fuckin' fiddle, and none the worse for the wear after teleporting outta the way of his last attack. Half a second later, she reappears -on the opposite side of the alley, hands flung out in front of her and a spell on her lips, a fibrous 'SMOKE' hissing from her fingertips and -for the second time this evening- explodin' in a thick, impenetrable cloud to conceal what he irritatedly presumes is another escape attempt.

 _Fucking un **believable**_ , he mentally grouses, wishing she'd stop and _fight him already_.

Before he can move one fuckin' step in pursuit of her, he takes at least thirty goddamn sucker punches -to the _face_ \-- in roughly the span it takes him to fully appreciate the fact that he's been hit at all, and by the time he finally maneuvers to strike, the assault abruptly ends, and his unseen assailant retreats back into the fog. At the same time, solid, stabbing vines break through the earth on either side of him, and immediately begin coiling and constricting around his arms and legs to hold him in place.

He smirks. _Sneak attack_. He's actually proud, a good deal less pissed off to discover she hasn't bolted after all. This's a feint, another trap. A poor one, obviously, since these are some of the flimsy-shittiest restraints he's ever encountered, but for the moment he remains intentionally still, because he's curious to see what else she's got up her sleeve.

As the smoke begins to clear, he can see the outline of another beside the Shrimp, and his nose suggests there's probably one more he's not seeing. That's when he gets socked again, this time in the gut. Which, actually, is far more painful for his as-yet invisible attacker than for himself, since his full torso and now his arms and legs have morphed into metal. He hears the belated, agonized yowl across the alley, and the smoke finally thins enough for him to make out the shapes and faces of the Shrimp's -er, bodyguards? Boyfriends? Entourage?

One's got a freakier hairdo than she does, some kinda tapered, whippy tail-lookin' shit -and the other's hunched over under his hat, holdin' his wrist and grimacing, clearly the one whose fist had just connected with his iron stomach. He cleared the length of the alley in seconds. _Speed demon_ , he concludes, rolling his eyes. Any fuckwit with half a Jewel* could buy a two-bit token to perform basic speed magic. At least that explains how a Script Mage managed to 'teleport.' He pans his gaze back to the first male, whose magic -earth or flora-centric, if the plant bondage offers any indication- is every bit as useless and ridiculous as the fish ass attached to the back of his head.

"You okay, Levy?" The one with the stupid hat and the hopefully-broken wrist asks.

 _Levy_. He rolls the name around in his mind once or twice, committin' it to memory before he's had a chance to consider why he'd bother.

"I'm fine. Really." Then, lower, with an edge of anxious reprimand to her grateful relief, "Took you guys long enough." The squinty-eyed shit in the furry hat cracks a pained grin and offers a quiet apology for not respondin' to her 'FLARE' sooner, while the other runs a cautious hand through her hair, smoothing it over where it'd been ruffled into disarray. Where he'd grabbed her.

"Did he hurt you?" Fish-ass demands to know, something damn near imperceptible changin' about his posture. Somethin' in the way he looks at the Midget makes Gajeel wanna punch the freak right in his stupid fuckin' haircut.

She doesn't respond directly to the question, 'cause the answer's fuckin' _obviously_ , but she sure as hell ain't willin' to admit as much in front of him.

He approves of her pride.

Gravely, "I'm pretty sure that's the point."

"What? Why? What'd you ever do to him?"

"This isn't about who I am or what I've done." She focuses a hard glare at him from all the way down the alley, remonstrative. He grins back at her, feral. "This is about Fairy Tail. He's here to start a war." She swallows, looks between her buffoons with a watery smile. "I think I'm just the convenient means to that end."

" _Gihik_." He laughs derisively, confirming this conclusion. "There's plenty enough pain for two more, Shrimp. Ain't gotta be stingy." All eyes ping to him, and he flexes his muscles experimentally, gauging how much strength he'll need to rip himself free in one go. _Not fucking much_ , he perceives, now thoroughly unimpressed with both of her lackeys.

"You can still leave." Levy tells him, gaze leveled with bemusement at her headband, pulled tight over his knuckles and tailing out of his right fist. "This can all end right now, Gajeel." Her stooges flinch visibly when she names him, and there's an interesting measure of raw anger underlyin' the more prominent pants-shitting terror now splashed across their faces. He doesn't fight the proud smirk that follows. Notoriety's fuckin' keen.

"Don't be gettin' cold feet on me, now." He's talkin' to her, to _Levy_ ; fuck if he gives two fat, flamin' shits about the sacks of meat she brought along for back-up. Far as he's concerned, they're set decoration. Collateral damage. Short Stuff's the only one packin' heat. Hell, she's already scored a couple good shots, and they ain't even technically _started yet._

_- _he crashes through her surprise 'WALL' with a curse and the coppery taste of his own blood filling his mouth, and rankles with angry shame at the sight of her whirlin' whip-quick 'round the corner, a radiant blur of color dissolved into darkness, leavin' behind her only the impression of a cock-sure, patronizin' smile bright as the fuckin' sun_ \- _

__

__

"I'm not afraid of you." She brazenly lies, shaking him free of whatever insanity'd just pulled him away from the present. His first instinct is to challenge her to prove it, or at the very least to reassure her he means to remedy her (clearly false) bravado, then rip himself free and make with the fire-starting. But, for the first time in a long, _long_ -ass time, he ignores his first instincts -and then his second and third instincts, too. 

Instead, like the fuckin' mongoloid-lunatic he might actually be, he stares at her, usin' these final moments 'fore he never sees her again to take her all in: the slow, even rise and fall of her chest as she breathes (which is still fuckin' baffling, because he's winded as all hell from their high-speed chase), the low, loose bend of her knees (her weight's in her feet: it's a ready stance, but one that indicates she's waitin' on _him_ to make the first move, which is both noble and rarefied-fuckin' _stupid_ ), the high color of her cheeks (the only clear evidence of the toll of her exertion), the rigid set of her jaw and the wide, anxious alertness of her eyes (subtle braces against mounting fear), the wild whorls of blue damply clinging to the margins of her mouth... 

She responds to this point-blank scrutiny by chuckin' her chin up at him, defiant. Then, deliberately, she pulls her gaze away from his; offers brief, meaningful nods to either of her useless minions; threads small, pale fingers through said minions' much larger hands; and finally, in what looks like ritual fuckin' fashion, her idiots stoop at the waist and tender their cheeks and he watches in inexplicable horror as she pecks the both of 'em, for luck or as a show o' solidarity or maybe 'cause these two dipshits really are the Midget's boyfriends. 

Whatever the reason, this revolting display makes the headband in his fist feel suddenly leaden, melts away the very last of his misgivings, and steels his resolve (particularly where Fish-ass and Furry Shit are concerned: he intends to make their pain _last_ ). 

The trio of Fairies perceive the shift in mood almost immediately; they seem to understand that the time for parley's passed, that their brief respite's about to come to an abrupt, agonizing halt. Furry Shit grimacingly lowers his bum hand and curls his good 'un into a fist. Fish-ass tenses, and the vine-shackles around Gajeel's arms and legs constrict in kind. And Levy...Levy looks a fuckin' Valkyrie, wild wrath on the warpath. 

_Showtime_. 

With a low, rumbling growl, Gajeel tears himself easily free of his bonds, and surges into action. 

/-/ 

The three of 'em -surprisin'ly- actually put up a fair amount of fight, though that's mostly on account o' Levy. They've got a cozy rhythm worked out: Short Stuff n' Fish-ass launch an unrelenting offensive from a distance, while Speed Demon darts in for short bursts of close-range combat and then just as quickly darts away again. Problem is, Levy's stooges're too damn predictable; her erratic blend of deadly spells n' cheap parlor tricks is the only thing keepin' him on his toes, and even that only lasts as long as it takes him to finally catch hold of her limp-wristed friend. 

" _Jet_!" She shrieks, at the last second purposefully misfiring a high-pressure 'WATER' spell to avoid accidentally blastin' her teammate. Which he immediately makes an exercise in hilarious futility, since he wastes no time metin' out the hurt: Gajeel clotheslines Twinkle Toes when he tries to make a break for it, spins before the punk has a chance to recover his breath or manage to stop himself from chokin' on his own damn saliva, and delivers a swift, flat-footed jab to his knee with a leg now wrapped in steel. Furry Shit's leg snaps back like a fuckin' twig, and the sound of it breaking echoes somethin' powerful in an alley suddenly death-quiet. 

A sideways peek yields an image of Levy, lookin' on in horror, frozen in place on the other side of their impromptu battlefield. Speedy's wearin' a similar expression; 'pparently he ain't fully registered what's just happened to him yet. Won't be the first time Gajeel's seen dumb shock overwhelm pain; he knows that'll pass, though, and sooner rather'n later at that. Graciously, he decides to help the agony along, and gingerly shifts his weight to break the fool's other leg. 

He's interrupted, though, when the stupefied mage abruptly sags and and begins to collapse under the irresistable influence of an effervescing mist that briefly reads 'SLEEP' before it explodes in a shower of short-lived knock-out sparkles. At the same time, Fish-ass attacks with a handful of monster-wide plant appendages, pullin' 'em up outta the earth and layers of packed dirt n' stone and snappin' 'em toward Gajeel like a carriage driver crackin' the reins to get his mares marchin'. He leaps away to avoid bein' smacked through a wall or tossed into the air (he'd had his fuckin' fill of _that_ chasin' after the Shrimp), lets Levy's mangled nakama slump to-er, just _above_ the ground, where a fast-loosed, glowing 'FLOAT' holds him briefly aloft, and then deposits him a great deal more gently than Gajeel would'a preferred. 

He meets Short Stuff's furious glare with the most winsome grin he's got. 

"One down," he announces, smug. 

With their lead offensive fighter outta commission, it doesn't take him long to win his way through to 'Droy,' as Levy calls him. All the Earth Movers he's met have been fearsome opponents -really, most all elemental mages are (himself included). But Fish-ass ain't an Earth wizard, and he's _definitely_ not a worthwhile adversary. This Fairy's full of flowers and over-chunky stalks n' stems, and for all Levy's obvious intelligence, she's sure chosen a shit battleground for her tree-huggin' teammate to mount an effective assault. The alley hems 'em all in, and they're surrounded by stone and brick and metal; it takes too much effort to force the vines up to the surface, and Gajeel can both hear _and_ feel the earth movin' under his feet as the plants are punchin' their way through it. Damn near impossible to land a hit when your foe knows exactly where your attack's comin', particularly when the weapon you're usin' is loud as a fuckin' freight train and only movin' half as fuckin' fast. What's more, Fish-ass's got shit control over his power: the plants he's wieldin' are too cumbersome, and he can only make 'em go in one damn direction at a time, and not nearly quick enough; without Speedy dancin' every which way to run interference, dodging Flower Boy's flacid onslaught's a fuckin' cake-walk. 

And Levy's attentions are split between keepin' an eye on her fallen nakama and stavin' him off long enough to give Peon: The Sequel a decent chance of either wrappin' him up again or scorin' a critical hit -either o' which seem backwards to him, 'cause Fish-ass ain't got the firepower or the wherewithal to bring him down, but _she_ might stand a better chance if she'd drop her lead-fuckin'-weights and go at him head-to-head. 

He experiences a fleeting moment of irrational anger at these weakling shits she clearly depends upon to cover and support her when they just as clearly fucking _can't_. Levy's smart, resourceful, and clever enough by half, but -to his unending fucking bafflement- she seems to rely on and genuinely care about these freaky little fuckwads when even she must know they're holdin' her back. But, he reminds himself, easily duckin' under a spring-loaded weed aimed at his head, her flawed tactics and obnoxiously poor choice of partners are mysteries for pullin' apart later; for now, he's got a Fairy to grind into the dirt. 

A Fairy who's put himself _riiiiight_ within reach. 

Gajeel charges right through Levy's blistering 'FIRE' spell, unscathed in his metal skin, and shoots off a single spear in her direction. It misses her, but he only meant to get her outta the way, not to actually hurt her -yet. He's savin' her for last. 

While she's retreating, he rockets himself into the air right in front of Fish-ass, jumpin' clear of the next wave of grasping, feckless plants, and then fires a volley of Demon Logs with his left hand as he comes back down, transfigurin' his right arm into his signature Dragon's Sword to finish the pansy freak. Fish-ass throws up a wall of green that manages to halt or deflect all but one of the Logs, but even a single spear inflicts significant damage: it tears all the way through the meat of his thigh and impales itself in the rubble behind him, and he starts hollerin' _immediately_. No merciful shock to hold the pain at bay for this Fairy. 

Levy's runnin' toward 'em, flingin' spells like a madwoman, but he's moving too fast -he hits the ground and rolls, arm extended to one side to keep from snaggin' his blade in the debris. Flower Boy's strugglin' to summon his strength in time to dodge or fight back, but in vain; every move he makes has him cryin' and screamin' bloody murder. (To be fair though, his leg looks like _hell_.) 

Spare seconds later, he's closin' in, and the Shrimp's yellin' somethin' at him -a plea, a threat?- and a spell hits him in the back -without effect- and he's already bringin' his arm up, ready to put this moron outta his misery, to remove this _nothing_ from his fight with _her_ \- 

" _ **NO**_!" At the last possible second, she's there, between them, arms flung wide, braced to take another's death, and it's-it's too late to stop the momentum-he's about to snuff out his Spark - _ **FUCK**_ -! "SHIELD!" 

-his sword-arm clangs _hard_ against her last-minute defensive spell, and sends her crashing back, into her still-caterwaulin' teammate. The force of his blow totally mangles her shield, and he can tell she's injured; the spell may've stopped the cutting edge of his blade, but it's done shit-all to diminish the impact of his strike. 

Still, she's alive, which -disturbingly- counts for a fucking _lot_. 

/-/ 

Gajeel waits for her to regain her feet; in battle-time, it takes for-fucking- _ever_. But eventually, she does pick herself back up, her neck and shoulder already purpling with one singularly ugly-ass bruise. He tells himself the pinching discomfort in his gut's everything _but_ remorse. Prob'ly that copper pipe snack from earlier comin' back to bite him... 

By this point, Fish-ass's howlin' has tapered to a pathetic, mewling whine, set to an infinite loop. A once-over reveals he's in a very bad way. He's losin' a whole helluva lot of blood, and he's already lost a fist-sized chunk of flesh and muscle; Gajeel can see shredded strings of tendon danglin' along the clean edges of the wound; grimly, unaware the Fairies have a Porlyusica up their sleeves, he figures it'll be nothing short of fuckin' miraculous if Flower Boy's ever able to use that leg again. One thing's certain for now, though: Sidekick Number Two's out of the fight. Now it's just him and her again, which is all Gajeel'd fuckin' wanted in the first place. 

"Afraid yet?" He wonders, actually curious. 

"Yes." She answers, without hesitation. "But if you think that means I'm going to beg-" 

"Don't want you to beg, Levy," her name on his lips feels deliciously impertinent, "I want you to _fight me_." She looks non-plussed at this, but then draws in a deep breath and nods once, curt acquiescence. 

"Fine." She presses a hand to her shoulder, already swollen to twice the size it'd been a couple minutes ago and currently turning an ominous shade of black. "But whatever happens when this is finished, Jet and Droy are no longer a part of this. Agreed?" Her protectiveness is sickening. The rumors were definitely fuckin' right about the Fairies' disgusting affection for their nakama. 

"Ya' ain't exactly in a position to be negotiating-" 

"All the same." She interjects. Gajeel snorts. "You want a war, I'm more than enough to get one started." It takes him a beat to put it all together -the hollow desperation of her expression, her uncompromising determination to spare her morons further injury: she thinks he means to kill her. He supposes he hasn't really given her any reason to believe otherwise, but truth be told, while he wouldn't'a lost any sleep over 'accidentally' shufflin' off her goons, he'd never seriously intended on takin' her out. Takin' her _down_ , sure, but not _killing_ her... 

"Levy... _no_..." Droy manages to murmur between wheezing sobs, apparently entertainin' similarly morbid thoughts on the aftermath of this contest. 

"Quiet." She commands, with gentle authority. She follows this up with another sparkly 'SLEEP' bomb, and he watches Fish-ass sink under instantly, goin' boneless and droopin' against one of the many piles of rubble they'd both helped make. 

Then, turning back to him and chokin' back her pride, " _Please_ , Gajeel. _Please_ spare them." This time she _is_ pleading, but not for herself 

"Tch, have it your way." He holds out his sword-arm, pointedly morphs it back to skin and bone. Almost cleavin' her in two affected him more than he's comfortable admittin' to. "But if ya' ask me, you're fuckin' better off without 'em." She blinks at him, not sure what to do with this opinion. "Ready?" 

"Would it matter if I said 'no?'" 

There's no humor in his face or voice when he tells her, "Not fuckin' likely." 

/-/ 

She fights tooth-and-nail, and he doesn't go easy on her because she's a girl, or because she's pint-sized, or because she's physically and emotionally exhausted, 'cause he feels he'd be doin' her a disservice to underestimate her. As he'd expected, when it's down to the wire, her magic actually packs one helluva punch. Words've never given him so much damn trouble in his whole life, mostly 'cause he's never bothered to pay 'em any special mind. Before now, he's never _needed_ to. But Levy's words are deadly. 

Even without her teammates, her spell-casting's as rapid-fire as ever, and every bit as random: one second she's dousing him with what his nose identifies as a shit-sucking ton of reeking, viscous 'OIL,' and the next, while he's tryin' to move in close enough to grab her and end this, she's dancin' outta reach and executin' an elegant flick of wrists and fingers and whisperin' ' _Darkness_ ,' a spell that plunges him into black so thick he can't even see himself. Then comes the 'NIGHTMARE' that flashes once behind his eyelids, blood red, and forces him to relive that most horrible of moments, when he realized his Old Man was gone, and this time he wasn't comin' back. Even fully aware that it's been nearly a decade since that hateful fuckin' day, that this isn't _real_ -the nightmare's vivid as fuck: he feels his world breaking apart, shattering, all over again. 

It _hurts_ , more'n any blow he's ever taken. 

It ends as abruptly as it'd started, and he emerges from his very own personal hell just in time to catch a disembodied 'FIST' right in the kisser. It barely hurts, but it does send him sprawlin' backwards over Speedy, which makes her hesitate to attack just long enough for him to recover and strike back -and after that 'nightmare' stunt, he's seein' red, so he strikes back _hard_. 

She's spry, he'll give her that. He comes at her full tilt, and she dodges, rolls, lobs a desperate spell or four from point-blank range, but it's not enough to stop him. It's just fucking _not enough_. She's finally startin' to flag, and she's wounded, distracted by her concern for her comrades, and though it takes him longer than it should, he finally rips through the last of her language barriers to stand before her, and he doesn't hesitate to raise his arm to strike- 

/-/ 

There's a quicksilver moment, in the split-second before his fist cracks against her cheek, that he experiences a painful flash of intuition, warning him that this will somehow become the thing he will most regret for the rest of his sorry excuse of a life. But it passes, as all his previous misgivings have passed, because this is who he is and what he does, because this is not yet a person he knows or cares about, because 'Levy' is just the name of a puny Fairy, a novel, tenaciously clever enemy who nevertheless never stood a chance against him. 

He's ready to be done with this. And the sooner, the fucking better. 

/-/ 

Levy crumples at his feet, a knotted tangle of ruptured plants and fractured stone breaking her fall -and possibly the very same shoulder he'd damaged moments prior. She cries out, a sharp peal that twists up his insides, and he's ready to walk away, call it a day. It's finished; Phantom'll have its war and he'll have his go at the Salamander. 

Except _Levy_ apparently ain't done -she drags herself to her feet with a strangled cry, and _shit_ but her arm's a mess. 

He doesn't have long to dwell on the sight of it -she throws a 'FIRE' straight at him, clearly hoping to put some distance between them, but he just ducks and rolls himself to one side -cursing when he smells the distinctive odor of burning hair- and whips his arm into a solid pipe, instinctively reacts to her attack by flingin' her against the opposite wall of the alley, which promptly buckles and crumbles all around her. 

After several long seconds, when there's still no sign of movement, he crosses over to fish her out of the debris. It's the work of only a handful of seconds, the original length of time he'd allotted for both catchin' up to and bringin' her down. It's been nearly fifteen minutes since she'd first dropped him into a hole and bolted, which is a whole helluva lot longer than he'd anticipated he'd need to get this job done. 

When he pulls her out, he feels himself grimacing and doesn't fight it. Her body's busted all to hell: one of her eyes is already swellin' shut, her left arm and shoulder look fuckin' worse than ever (and yes, that arm's definitely broken), and he thinks he might'a cracked a rib or two when he threw her, 'cause he discovers a suspicious _give_ when he probes at the bruise-darkening skin around her rib-cage. Plus, she's bleedin' from all manner of tiny cuts and abrasions, and she's covered from head-to-toe in ash and dust. 

The sick, wrenching tug in his belly at the sight of her all smashed up is briefly dispelled when she -impossibly _still conscious_ \- lifts her head and... _spits_ at him, hits him right in the eye. 

"Heh," she laughs, wincing, "got'cha." Then, before he has the chance to come up with a suitable comeback, she goes limp in his grasp, passing out. 

What he feels is...relief, that this is finally over. 

And also a confusing measure of disgust, that it happened at all. 

/-/ 

Gajeel doesn't know when he'd dropped her headband, but he recovers it after he administers some basic first aid and before he carries her off to string her up next to Speedy and Fish-ass, carefully securin' it back where he'd first seen it, a bright band of orange and yellow against a sea of blue. 

When he thinks on the encounter, he'll remember the soft, supple weight of her in his arms, small and broken and helpless, and the cool, silken feel of that fucking headband, the incongruous sensation of it against his calloused palm as he stared her down, inviting whatever retribution she could muster. 

Otherwise, except in fleeting, inebriated moments, he does everything in his power to _stop_ himself thinkin' on this night, or the little blue Fairy who helped him start his war. 

Though for the life of him, while he's bolting Levy to a tree and magickin' his guild's seal onto her bare midriff, he can't seem to remember why he ever wanted the fuckin' war in the first place. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

*Jewels - currency in the Fairy Tail 'verse. 

THIS CHAPTER CRUSHED MY THUMPY-THINGY. ToT 

because i very desperately want to like gajeel again, there is definitely a fourth (and fifth and sixth) installment, post-timeskip, in which i will force gajeel to FREAKING APOLOGIZE, which really he should ALREADY HAVE DONE IN THE MANGA BECAUSE HE KNOCKED THE STUFFING OUT OF THREE INNOCENT PEOPLE AND FAUX-CRUCIFIED THEM AND EVEN THOUGH I LOVE HIM THAT'S DEFINITELY PSYCHOTIC AND GERMANY CHRISTMAS WHY IN FRUNKING HILLBILLY HASN'T HE EVEN SO MUCH AS TEXTED SHADOWGEAR A 'LOOK GAIS, I'M TOTES SORRY LOL' YET? 

but i digress. 

chapter four, coming soon! 


	4. his midget problem

**flash-forward: year x791**

/-/

They walk into their now overgrown shit-heap of a guild to the emotionally explosive welcome of -a whole fuckin' brood of mages he no longer recognizes. He feels a damn stranger, all over again.

Which makes it special fuckin' surreal when he gets every bit as warm a reception as the rest of the Tenrou gang. Everyone wants to shake his hand, touch his arms, his face, talk to 'im, or-worst of fuckin' all - _hug_ him. It's bizarre as _shit_. He'd left this place one week and two days ago, a tentative ally, and returned seven years later, a cherished, lost loved one. To the majority of Fairy Tail, it's been ages since he'd destroyed the guild, trashed Shorty n' her stooges, and tried his damndest to take the rest of 'em down in one helluva clusterfuck battle royale. But that all still feels like very recent history to him -and prob'ly to the rest of the S-classers, too. To Levy.

Still, he suffers the joyous, tearful reunion for as long as he's able -which is longer'n he reckons on account of the freely-flowin' booze and the inevitable degeneration of the festivities into a guild-wide brawl. And Panther, 'course, who's been dutifully runnin' interference for him when his 'go-n'-fuck-right-the-hell-off' glower proves completely and _repeatedly_ ineffective.

Somewhere in the midst of all this sappy jubilatin', he catches sight o' the Midget, sitting at the bar with the bunny girl, nursin' a flagon of somethin' that -bein' that it's Levy- ain't likely alcoholic. The pint's over-large in her grasp; he'd wager her fingers couldn't wrap the circumference if she tried.

Lingerin' as he is on the contrasts -dull burnish and cream, fat juts of gnarled wood overlaid by slender shapes n' smooth flesh- he's still blind-sided by the memory of one o' those soft hands pressed warm n' tight against his own, in that moment they all believed would be their last. He sure as shit hadn't earned it -her goodwill, the comfort of fellowship, the privilege of her touch; yet she'd offered all three, like it cost her fuckin' _nothing_ when it should'a taken all of her not to actively hate him. 'Cause now he's rememberin' another time she'd had occasion to lay hands on him, when he'd hauled her back by her hair and felt the bite of her nails scrabblin' at his wrist-

Gajeel's fingers tense where he's holdin' his own tumbler, and the sharp strains of fissuring wood accompany what must be the billionth willful suppression of easily the most shameful chapter in a long and storied history of contemptible enterprises. Cogitatin' on what he'd done to Shadow Gear that fateful night makes him sick to his fuckin' stomach, makes him wanna rip out of his _fucking skin_ ; he flat-out can't afford to think about that shit now -or fuckin' _ever_ , if he can help it.

He especially ain't interested in walkin' that road tonight, when he's well on his way to shit-faced and separated only by a loose collection of upended tables from the very girl he'd used to start his stupid-ass farce of a fuckin' war. In this state, he starts reflectin' on the hurt he'd put on that bright-eyed bookworm, he's likely to break out some drastic fuckin' histrionics, maybe crawl over on his hands and knees and prostrate himself at her feet and beg Her forgiveness like the wretched fuckin' trash he is.

 _ **Oi**_ , he casts a suspicious glance down into what's left of his drink, mentally chidin' himself for the unexpectedly maudlin turn of his thoughts. Him n' his _tender goddamn feelings_. What a fuckin' nightmare.

Luckily, before he can slide any further along his downward spiral, the sound of laughter -Hers, and bunny girl's- cuts clear across the room and pulls him right up and outta the tumbler. What he gets when he looks up is an eyeful o' Levy near doubled over on her barstool, hysterical over fuck-only-knows-what; with the reunion pandemonium still in full swing, ain't no way to eavesdrop on her n' blondie even if he wanted.

For present, he's got no such inclination, caught up as he is gogglin' at her like some shit-for-brains mongrel. She's - _fuck_ , but she's a many-splendid fuckin' vision: a canvas of bold colors n' artless dynamism, the brightest fuckin' thing he's ever seen; and he's the dumb-as-bricks degenerate whose unforgivable crimes she'd tacitly pardoned. She makes him feel...humble.

His heart's slammin' painful hard 'gainst his chest, and he knows he's starin', but doesn't really think anything of it 'til Panther speaks up.

"Gajeel."

"Hm." He responds mechanically, focus still riveted to the Shrimp at the bar.

"'On the plains of hestitation bleach the bones of countless millions who, on the dawn of victory, stopped to rest and resting died.'"* _That_ gets his attention. He pans his gaze slowly to Panther and considers the possibility that his partner might be sufferin' some... _side-effects_ from their stint in that magic Fairy bubble outside of Time.

"What the fuck're you even sayin'?"

Sagely, "That failure to venture is failure to gain." Gajeel blinks at his poker-faced partner and wonders seriously if Mavis's spell hadn't broken his cat.

"Yeah, great, that clears up fuckin' _everything_."

"Fortune favors the bold?" Panther tries. Gajeel growls in irritation. The pint-sized warrior exhales exasperation. "Pull your head outta your ass and go _talk to her_." The blank look he offers in response to this command has those feline eyes narrowin', like his cat thinks he's intentionally missin' the point. " _Levy_ , Gajeel." Panther indicates the bar with a discreet chuck of his furry chin. His gaze naturally tracks to the girl in question, currently on her feet and leanin' into bunny girl's intriguingly firm embrace-

"Focus." Panther snaps his stubby-furry fingers in front of Gajeel's face. He swivels his attention back to his partner with a snarl.

"What you're suggestin's pointless." He bites. The cat doesn't flinch.

"I'm well aware there's... _unpleasant _history between you-"__

__" _There's_ a fuckin' understatement."_ _

__"-but it's not everyday you come back from the dead." Panther finishes, ignorin' the interjection. Across the room, Gajeel sees Levy pullin' away from blondie and wavin' a cheerful g'bye as she makes her way over to the remaining members of Shadow Gear, seated at the furthest end of the bar with Elfman. He watches Tubs n' Twinkle-Toes watchin' her approach, and then, when she reaches 'em and the much-changed males scoop her into a bear hug that has her gigglin' like a giddy goddamn school girl, he's left to grapple with that same, irrational sense of possessiveness he'd felt toward her the very first time he laid eyes on her (and ever fuckin' since). But she wasn't his then, and she sure as fuck ain't his now, so he chokes down the impulse to send a pair o' well-aimed Logs right up her idiots' shitters and reminds himself for the hundred-thousandth time that those idiots are as much his guild-mates now as hers._ _

__At length, "Well?" The Exceed prompts._ _

__"'Well' fuckin' _what_?"_ _

__"' _Well_ ,' d'you really intend to sit here moping into your drink all night?"_ _

__Dangerously, "Ain't fuckin' _mopin_ ', furball." Pantherlily glowers up at Gajeel from his cross-armed position on the table, unimpressed by the Warning Tone._ _

__"Now's as good a chance as you're likely to get to start fresh, _fleshbag_." In spite of himself, Gajeel grins at the epithet, rememberin' off-hand that his partner'd come from a world where cats were tantamount to fuckin' _gods_. "Make the most of the opportunity, or live to regret it. Choice is yours. As for me, I'm callin' it a night." And with that, the Exceed spins smartly on his kitty paws and hops off the table, landin' with the silent, innate grace of his kind. (Exceptin' the Salamander's clumsy-as-shit cat, 'course.)_ _

__Gajeel can cop to his Midget problem: she's there, flittin' away at the back of his brain, pretty much all the livelong-goddamn-day; but she's _his_ fuckin' problem, dammit, and he'll deal with her when he's good n' goddamn ready to, not a moment fuckin' sooner. Sound advice or no._ _

__Satisfied with this decision, he starts makin' plans to knock back the rest of his drink, wander off somewhere to pass out 'til sometime tomorrow afternoon, n' then peel himself off o' whatever stoop he lands on and drag his ass back here to suss out a mission that'll take him as far from this topsy-turvy place as he can fuckin' get._ _

__But, before the tumbler even makes it off the table, he sees Levy pullin' away from Droy n' Jet, all tears and smiles, callin' out a farewell and a promise to meet up again sometime tomorrow evening, and then she's slippin' outta one of the rear entrances, and he moves to follow her automatically, 'cause fuck if _anything_ ever goes accordin' to plan where she's concerned.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ _

__* "On the plains...resting, died." -omar kayam_ _

__also, fyi: the events of this fic happen pretty much immediately post-timeskip, and allude heavily to canon events...which i've embellished in another fic o' mine, entitled: 'end times,' which i'll be posting soon. [SHAMELESS PLUGGERY ACTIVATED.]_ _

__/-/_ _

__[next chapter: gajeel fondly reminisces about That One Time his dragon-daddums called him a 'puny-mewlin'-pigeon-livered-shit-heel,' and finally-feckin' apologizes for That Other One Time he was an unconscionable dickweed to levy n' droy n' jet...and maybe gets his mack on.]_ _


	5. moth to flame

Levy ends up leadin' him to the library - _her_ library, which he might'a fuckin' guessed. The door to this adjunct facility creaks open with a terrible _SCREEEEE!_ , like it ain't been opened in years. As quiet as he can manage in his hooch-muddled fog, he trails along after her, blinkin' up in puzzlement when he secrets his way through the entrance and steps into the darkness _just_ beyond the glowy-flickerin' ring o' 'LIGHT' she's cast over the stacks, into which she's already disappearin'.

Gajeel hovers near the entryway, fixin' himself to the black while he tracks her progress down one of the left-most aisles. Belatedly, it hits him: how stale the air is, how heavy it is with mildew, and even from here, he can see the books're caked thick with dust, the shelves choked by cobwebs. No one's been in here for a long while, he realizes, a touch sourly. But then, a lot of these once well-loved corners of Fairy Tail seem to've fallen to shit in their absence.

He watches her run her hands lovingly over volume after filthy volume, and when she finally pauses, turnin' to pull a book from the shelf -careful-like, the way one might handle a cursed relic, there's a reverent-tender smile stretched across her mouth, and fresh tears waterin' in her eyes.

"Hello, old friend." She whispers, and he doesn't understand -her, or the ritual playin' out before him. All he knows is he suddenly he feels like he's intrudin' on somethin' secret, somethin' sacred. Outta respect for her privacy, he might'a taken this as his cue to leave, if not for the candle-gold hues of her spell suddenly strikin' her _just so_ , reflectin' in her eyes like honey and shimmerin' in her hair like sunshine on water. He stares, mute n' stupid as he'd been the day he met Metalicana, when he'd tried to sneak off with some choice loot from the dragon's treasured scrap metal heap n' been near-immediately discovered, denounced as a ' _puny, mewlin', pigeon-livered shit-heel_ ,' and then taken a two-ton, wrought-iron tail to the gut for his trouble. The present circumstances're different, 'course, but the _feelin_ 's the same: there's awe, and naked terror, n' a certain, overwhelming sense of inevitability -like he's been hurtlin' head-long toward this moment his whole damn life, n' all the stuff he's been doin' in between's amounted to precisely Dick n' Shit.

One week or seven years ago, they were goners, flash-fried fish food, yet here they both are, miraculously, impossibly alive, and here she stands before him, a ribbon o' flame licked up in the dark, wardin' off the murky night even as it surrounds n' enfolds her.

Gajeel can't say, exactly, how long he stands there gawkin' at her, just that's it's a fair-fuckin' stretch past proper. He can't say how long he might'a _continued_ leerin' at her, either, if he hadn't been shaken out of his stupor by the short, pained yelp she emits -and by the sour-copper smell of her blood suddenly underlyin' all the more potent odors of the library itself. The sharp, unmistakable ' _slap!_ ' of something smackin' against the floor follows, echoin' loud in the ghost-quiet of the building, and his feet bear him forward seemin'ly of their own volition. There's nothin' conscious about the decision, only a desperate, undeniable urgency to get to her _now_.

He doesn't make any kinda effort to keep quiet, so o' course she hears him thunderin' toward her, and it sets her on immediate alert: the crisp perfume of her magic washes up over him, at first floodin' his senses, n' then mixin' in with all the other, mustier smells. And there's a sudden, grave readiness in her stance, a Look in her eyes that tells him she's runnin' scenarios in that big, booky brain o' hers, listin' through contingencies, scannin' for escape routes, plottin' potential angles of attack. Short Stuff's guarded n' tense, yet also fierce, determined. It's the very Look she'd worn the night he found her, the one that'd made him dead-wary of underestimatin' her.

It's a Look that up-n'-fuckin' _vanishes_ the instant he steps into the light and she sees it's him. The tension drains right out of her, and the look that replaces _**The** Look_ is one of... _ **relief**_ \--and ain't _that_ a fuckin' twist? There was a time there in the first few weeks after Makarov recruited him that she'd shrink instinctually in alarm anytime he came near, or alternatively, glare hellfire at 'im so unblinkin'ly hard he actually wondered once or twice if she weren't doin' some kinda permanent damage to her eyes. Yet now, caught alone in a sequestered space in the dead o' night, she greets him not with fear or hatred, but instead with warmth and gladness.

It's contrary to fuckin' sense.

Soon enough, the relief gives way, too, to puzzlement. She opens her mouth, clearly meanin' to ask him why he's here, but only gets as far as his name 'fore he's loomin' over her n' grabbin' her by the wrist n' draggin' her closer to look her over in the low light for whatever'd made her cry out...which, he eventually finds, ain't nothin' more'n a thin, tiny dot o' blood beadin' at the tip of her middle finger.

Levy gives him a sheepish smile.

"Occupational hazard." She says of the paper cut, and he shakes his head, addlepated at his own over-reaction. After a beat, when he realizes he's still got his hand wrapped 'round her wrist, he releases her lickety-split and takes a yieldin' step back. She takes a step back, as well, and he takes the opportunity to draw his eyes lingerin'ly up the length of her, wreathed in amber light.

"Idiot." He mumbles, castin' a reprovin' glower down on the heavy, dust-eaten culprit behind her injury. Levy scrunches her nose at him, then gingerly pops her finger into her mouth to soothe the sting of the cut. His own mouth goes dry in response. She stoops to retrieve the book she'd dropped, attention focused squarely on the well-bein' of the very piece-of-shit, leather-bound behemoth that'd spurned her, n' all the while, he's watchin' that lone, pale digit, workin' between her lips, his world narrowed to a single, searin' point-

"So, what's up?" She asks him outta the blue, jarrin' him out of his Catalogue of Unwholesome Thoughts when she finally pulls her finger free, the better to hold her book tucked against her hip like a babe-in-fuckin'-arms. "Couldn't handle all the affection?" His intolerance for all the wayward sentimentality happenin' back in the main hall ain't but half of the reason he'd quit that fuckin' room...but that's not somethin' he feels 'specially obliged to share.

"Fuckin' obnoxious." Is all he says.

Sarcastically, "Yeah, it's like they all thought we were _dead _or something. Go figure." He snorts derisively and crosses his arms, casually leanin' against the bookshelf at his back n' then cursin' up a storm when doin' so agitates a whole damn colony of dust motes. He starts irritatedly battin' at the musty cloud, n' Levy gets to gigglin' good-naturedly at his plight, and he decides he maybe doesn't much mind the gaffe, after all.__

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Gradually, her laughter tapers, and they sink into a comfortable lull. 

Then, appropos of fuckin' nothing: "Jet has a _girlfriend _now."__

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"Jealous?" He sneers, with more venom than he intends. She blinks up at 'im, seein' something in his face -fuck knows what- that makes her smile softly. 

"A little." She finally admits. For one excruciating instant, he sees red, and he...he _aches _, feels like his chest's fuckin' _caving in _\- "But not for the reason you probably think." The blinding, vengeful haze diminishes enough for him to catch her drawin' her fingers across the spine of a book with a series of indecipherable orange runes along its base.____

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"Ain't thinkin' anything." He snaps, defensive. "The fuck I do care?" 

Ignoring his unprovoked animosity, "Jet's been with me since I was little -Droy, too. The three of us've been together since before I have conscious memories. And I've always known, intellectually, that someday, one way or another, things between us would have to... _change _, but...I mean, I didn't expect it to happen _overnight _. They've had seven years to adjust to life without me in it, to mourn and move on and start fresh, while I...it's just...it's not _fair _, because suddenly my best friends in the whole world are _strangers _, and I've missed _seven whole years_ of their lives, and it...it _hurts, so much _." There are nuances to her expression he flat-out can't interpret beyond recognizin' the heavy, soul-shatterin' sadness behind 'em.__________

___While she breathes deep, tryin' to compose herself, visibly strugglin' not to cry, Gajeel spares a moment to wonder why the hell she's pourin' her guts out to _him _, of all people. There's an implicit trust here, an intimate kind o' confidence in her willingness to show such open n' unashamed vulnerability, that throws him. Discombobulates him. Draws him irresistibly closer.___ _ _

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"I know it's probably -definitely- horrible and selfish of me, but I just, I wish..." She falters, trails off, but he knows 'xactly what she wishes, 'cause it's the same fuckin' thing he n' that useless-shit Salamander n' that blue-headed tyke've been wishin' for seven-goin'-on-fourteen damn years: for a re-shuffle an' a different fuckin' hand, for rhyme or fuckin' reason, for _more time _. "It's a miracle, an honest-to-goodness miracle we survived that attack. I know that. We should all be dead, what happened shouldn't have been _possible _, but instead we're alive and we're home and it's incredible and of course I'm so, so grateful, but...all I can think about is turning back the clock and taking back all those precious years that're just _gone _..." She were any other fairy, n' he'd tell her blunt-n'-bald to quit her damn belly-achin' and suck it the fuck up, cause wallowin's a bad habit to pick up, and serves no fuckin' purpose besides. But Levy ain't just any fairy, n' it seems she's not much more'n a hitch-n'-a-shiver away from bawlin' her eyes out, so instead of offerin' up his usual program of unsympathetic, harsh reality, he wracks his brain frantic-like for some well-meanin' reassurance or, or fuckin' _something _other'n the uncomfortable silence he's lettin' lengthen between 'em.________

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It doesn't take him long to figure out he's got not one steamin' shit's whiff of a clue what to say in the way o' cheerin' her up, though, so followin' one last fraught, frustrated minute of graspin' at straws, he finally opens his mouth- 

"Ah, _fuck _'em. They were holdin' you back as it is; far's I'm concerned, you're better off without 'em." -and fumbles out the least fucking tactful thing possible. It does at least have the desired effect of puttin' pause to whatever tears might'a been comin'. She blinks up at him, pensive.__

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After a quiet moment, "You've said that to me once before, you know." He doesn't _remember _ever havin' said that out loud before, though he's thought it he doesn't know how many zillion fuckin' times, so if it'd slipped out one without his meanin' it to, well. He's said worse. And it's the fuckin' truth, anyway.__

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"Hm." Is his gruff response. 

She takes a deep breath. 

"Gajeel." She says, her melancholy unaccountably fled, forgotten. He can't explain why this puts him on edge, but it does. And it turns out his sense of foreboding's right on the fuckin' money, 'cause the very next thing she says is: "Tell me about Metalicana." 

Immediately defensive, "What the hell good would _that _do?" She doesn't miss a beat.__

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"It'd satisfy my curiosity, for one." He expects her to continue, to start listin' through her persuasions, maybe flip that invisible switch that activates her Academic Interrogation Mode if she's feelin' particular keen on pullin' the information out of him. But she just stands there, starin' up at him quiet n' expectant. Like him openin' up about his past's a foregone fuckin' conclusion. Like she knows she ain't _gotta _do any persuadin'. Apparently she's got it in her head he won't or can't deny her.__

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And she's fucking _right _, he bitterly concedes.__

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At length, turnin' his head the fuck away from that honey-brown gaze o' hers, "The Ol' Man was an ornery-ass son-of-a-bitch." He starts. "Busted me senseless first time we fuckin' met, then spent the next couple years beatin' me to shit, 'til I could finally fuckin' hold my own against him." He can sense she's drinkin' this shit up, but he keeps his eyes carefully averted, 'cause he knows full-fuckin'-well he can't handle the sight of her eager, honest interest. "The years followin' were...fuck, _comfortable _, I guess. Had a routine, somethin' constant, somethin' like-" He bites his tongue, as he _refuses _to call the Ol' Man-____

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"Family?" Levy supplies, knowingly. He does look at her, then, and finds he can't look away again. 

"Geezer kept insistin' he was gonna fry n' fuckin' eat my sorry ass, after he'd proper 'tenderized' me. And he did take his pound of flesh, fuckin' _daily _, but always to the end of makin' me into somethin' worthy of matchin' n' surpassing a dragon -of surpassin' _him _. Any threats to the contrary were pure, hot fuckin' air." He crosses his arms and starts to lean back against the bookshelf -'til he remembers what happened last time he did just that, and thinks better of it. "In the meantime, he dragged me all over the fuckin' continent, raisin' holy hell n' raidin' armories n' chasin' storms n' gorgin' himself on livestock an' dangerous wildlife n' blowin' away any hapless fuckin' trashes who came lookin' to make names for 'emselves by baggin' a dragon." He's talkin' murder and mayhem here; her eyes ought'a be big as fuckin' plates. But what he sees in her expression ain't horror or disapproval or outrage, but rapt wonder, intrigue. It fires him up, spurs him on. "Told a mean fuckin' riddle, too. Talked circles 'round the mages who came seekin' his 'ancient, ageless wisdom.'" Gajeel grins, malicious. "Fuckers couldn't make heads or tails outta the shit came pourin' outta the Old Man's mouth." Somethin' occurs to him then, and it surprises him that he hadn't made the connection before. "Had a thing for dead languages, actually. Liked to break 'em apart n' dick around with the pieces. Had a command of at least a couple dozen tongues, and bits of fuck knows how many others. Code-switchin' bastard confounded the _fuck _outta would-be 'mages of the mind.' Like as not, the two o' you would'a been thick as fuckin' thieves-" He stops suddenly, seein' the huge, unstoppable smile curvin' across her mouth. His own damn mouth'd run away with him without him realizin', and he'd shared more'n he meant. _Lots _more'n he meant.________

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Still smilin' that blindin' smile, "Why do you think Metalicana chose to keep you by his side?" 

"How the fuck should I know?" He answers honestly, if a bit indignantly. "Ain't a damn mind reader." Yet again, she glosses right over his deliberate antagonism, and cocks her head to one side, as in thought. 

"What about you, then? What made _you _stay with _him _?" Gajeel's struck dumb by this question, chiefly since it ain't one he's ever had occasion to think on. He followed Metalicana because the Old Man let him, n' he never had cause to dwell on the 'why' of it. Eventually, "Sorry, I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that." Her apology seems sincere enough, but does precious fuckin' little to abate the turbulent uncertainty she'd set to brewin' inside of him. "It's a difficult question to answer, isn't it?" She says it like she's about to bring this exchange to a calculated point. He might'a known there was ulterior motive lurkin' about her seemin'ly random interest in his past. She's too fuckin' clever for anythin' else. Far from bein' upset, he finds he _likes _the sneakiness of the maneuver. "It's the same for me with Jet and Droy. The three of us teaming up...it wasn't something that happened by design, and it definitely didn't have anything to do with logic or advantage. It just... _happened _." She turns from him then, carefully reshelving that monster-fuckin' book as she continues, "Fate or coincidence, desperation or compatability of spirit; whatever ultimately brought us together, it was for keeps. They're mine, in precisely the same way I'll always be _theirs _." His gaze lights onto her bare shoulder, catchin' on her Fairy brand, a pearly olive in the yellow wash of her spell. "They're my family, Gajeel. Forever. No matter the temporal separation or power differential." 'Fore he knows it, she's facing him again, and steppin' back into the space she'd previously surrendered, squarin' her shoulders as if bracin' for a fight. "Therefore, even if they are, as you say, 'holding me back' -which, just for the record, they _aren't _\- I would never, ever forsake them. Just like you would never forsake your search for Metalicana." He's 'bout to cut across her, furious at the comparison of those two blundering shits with his adoptive dragon-parent, but the next thing she says stops him dead: "Just like I would never forsake _you _, even though you once hurt my most precious people."______________

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And there it is, laid out between 'em, the irreconcilable horror of their first meeting, brandished not as a weapon but as a palliative. There's no bitter indictment, no demand for apology or reparation, only sad acknowledgment, used to underscore the poignancy of a sentiment he _does not fucking deserve _.__

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He flashes back to that moment, that half-a-heartbeat, right before he struck her down, when he knew -he fucking _knew _\- he'd regret it...and he went n' fuckin' _did it anyway _.____

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"That said," she continues, hesitant, perhaps perceivin' the impact of her oblique allusion to That Night, "I hope today's the last day you'll ever say I'm 'better off' without my team." He nods, which's as much agreement as he can manage with his heart lodged in his fuckin' throat. Then he near leaps out of his skin when she cuts through the ungulfable distance between 'em, easy as breathin', and gently lays her fingers out against his arm. "Are you okay?" She asks, all heartfelt fuckin' concern. This serves only to intensify his self-loathing. 

"The fuck're you doin'?" He snaps, hopin' to ward her off. Instead, she shuffles closer, and slides her hand down his forearm to take him by the hand, for the second time in a week. Or, seven years. ( _Fucking magic time bubble _.) Last time, there was the matter of their imminent death at the hands of a massive immortal monster to provide impetus, and distraction. This time it's just him n' her, in a dark, forgotten space. Hopefully, the beige-bronze cast of her spell's dim enough to hide the fire burnin' its way up his neck n' flamin' into his face. "Levy..." He warns.__

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"Gajeel..." She mimics, playfully mocking. "It's funny; there was a time I was convinced I'd never be able to forgive you for what happened the night we met," he winces at the all-too-casual way she speaks of it, like she's talkin' books n' shop and not about the time some wild animal mauled her n' her friends, "I was even half-ready to take Shadow Gear and _leave _when you joined Fairy Tail...I didn't understand how Master could bring you in after what you'd done -not just to my team, but to Lucy and Natsu and the whole guild." She slips into a meditative quiet, and he keeps his mouth respectfully fuckin' _shut _, for fear of his own foot flyin' in. "Even when you stood and took Jet and Droy's abuse, even when Laxus attacked and you leapt to my defense...I mistrusted your motives. I was sure you'd turn right around and stab us in the back as soon as we let down our guard, so I promised myself I'd never give you the chance, that I'd _never _let you in." She glances down at their joined hands with a wry smile. "But somewhere along the way, maybe after you teamed up with Natsu to beat Laxus, or maybe when you helped get everyone back safely from Edolas, or when Juvia pulled me aside and told me how loyal a friend you could be, or when I realized how much Lily genuinely respects you, or when I saw how lamely you play guitar-"______

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" _Watch it _, Shrimp..." She starts laughin' again, and his menacing tone falls flat.__

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"You trained with me, pushed and challenged and provoked me, and when we found ourselves in dire straits, you saved my life at the risk of your own." Her fingers squeeze tight over his. "You stood and fought with us against Grimoire Heart, and you were ready to _die _with us when Acnologia appeared." She looks him straight in the eye when she says: "I forgive you." The thing hammerin' away in his chest lurches to a sudden, painful _halt _. His mind empties of everything 'cept bald shock, and he even stops breathin' for a spell. Levy forges on, heedless. "I think I forgave you a long time ago, actually, though I can't say for sure when, not exactly. But when you volunteered to be my partner for the exam, I can't deny I was... _glad _. Maybe more than just glad..." She mumbles this last part, duckin' her head in embarrassment, p'rhaps workin' on a blush of her own. The gears in his brain start turning, and he gets to nursin' an impossible intuition. "I won't -and can't- _forget _what you did, but forgiveness is separate matter. You've proved yourself too many times for me to continue to doubt the sincerity of your contrition, or your willingness to make amends. I know now, you'd do everything in your power to protect Fairy Tail, and that you'd sooner die than hurt any of us. That you'd die for Fairy Tail, period."________

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"Know that for a fact, do ya'?" He drawls, meanin' to make her think a minute 'fore she commits herself to puttin' her faith in the likes of him. 

Instead, "I do," falls from her lips without a hiccup's worth o' hesitation. After a moment, "I'm right, aren't I?" He grumbles out a sullen response, feelin' put-on-the-spot all over again. 

"Can't be _that _fuckin' sure, if you hafta ask." Her mouth twitches up into a smile.__

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"That's what I thought." And then, "You're cute when you're embarrassed." In some distant corner of his mind, where the part of him that craves _her praise exclusively _lurks, somethin' up and fuckin' _explodes _. "And I would for you, too, just so you know. Die, I mean, if I had to."____

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___Instantly indignant, "Like I'd fucking _let _you." Levy nudges his arm lightly with her elbow, but leaves their fingers interlocked. His intuition folds itself into a shape more on the order o' incredulous certainty.  
___ _ _

"I'm not saying I _plan _to, ya' big doof, just that I would if there was no other way to protect you...because you're one of my precious people now, too. And I..." She swallows hard, clearly nervous, "...cherish you. And trust you." The former admission sets his heart racin' off into the goddamn sunset, while the second has him gropin' blind for his mislaid temper, to smother the life outta the pure, stupid joy it shakes awake inside of 'im, 'fore he makes an ass of himself and grins wide 'nough to split his face in fuckin' half.__

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"Careful, Levy." He warns, shufflin' closer. "Just 'cause I ain't your enemy doesn't mean you should fuckin' trust me. That...it's, it's _asinine _." He says, tryin' the word out for the first time since he heard her use it, seven years or one week ago, when their biggest worry'd been passing the S-class exam. The smile she shines up at him makes rememberin' the damn word well worth the effort.__

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"I'm not a child, Gajeel." She says, without heat. "I know forgiveness and trust aren't to be given lightly. For either to be meaningful, they have to be earned. It's just...as far as I'm concerned, you've more than earned both. That's my decision, and it's final. And I'll thank you not to tell me who I can and can't trust, in the future." Then, without prompting, she repeats, "I'm not a child." 

"I know." He says, _with _heat. He certainly ain't ever treated her like one, from the first moment they met. "But for someone so fuckin' clever, you're treadin' awful close to stupid."__

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"Well," she begins, primly, " _you _would know." She turns up her nose, but playful-like, without hauteur or malice. "Far be it for me to doubt the expert." She winks up at him, all merry mischief, and he stares down at her, again (actually, now he's thinkin' on it, he's not sure he ever _stopped _starin' at her), not even really registerin' the insult. He can't offer any guesses as to why _this _, of all things, throws him over the edge, but ain't no use denyin' it when he's already in free fall.______

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Funny, though, that it's _her _life flashin' through his brain, 'stead of his own.__

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Gajeel sees her, single-minded, on hands n' knees on the floor of the guild hall, porin' through books to free Salamander n' himself from those coward-be-fucked runes keepin' the A-Team on the sidelines; wily-clever, anticipatin' and furtively alterin' Freed's spell on the ship that bore 'em to Tenrou; bold n' unafraid, facin' certain, ancient-dragon-induced death with her head high and a smile crookin' at her lips; brazen-bright, whippin' 'round a corner with a victorious smile an instant 'fore her spell slams him through a fuckin' wall; full o' fire, even in defeat, even broken and bleeding, usin' the very last of her strength to lift her head and spit in his face- " _Gotcha _."__

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He never stood a fuckin' chance. 

Moth to flame, he draws closer, touches her face, amazed when she doesn't pull away, when instead she reaches a hand up and overlays his own, holdin' him fast. 

Gajeel's never been one for compunction. Ain't no drama left to it -he wants her, simple as that. He knows damn well he doesn't deserve her forgiveness, her trust, her affection, and he sure as fuck doesn't deserve _her _, either, as ally or friend or otherwise. But he thinks she's old enough -and definitely smart enough- to make her own damn decisions, and _he _sure isn't gonna be the one to tell her who not to date. If Levy wants a piece of his action, she'll find no argument from him.____

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"Levy," he rumbles, leanin' in, painful slow, wantin' to give her plenty o' time to understand what's comin', so she can decide whether or not she wants to shove him off her n' nail 'im with a well-aimed 'FIST' to the tenders. 

What she actually does is close her eyes and pull up onto her tippy-toes. Blessed clarity of purpose follows quick on the heels of her tacit invitation, and you better believe, he _does not fucking hesitate _-__

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/-/ 

There's a quicksilver moment, in the split-second 'fore his mouth meets hers, that he experiences a clarifying flash of intuition, intimating that this will become the thing he will most rejoice for the rest of his sorry excuse of a life. Ain't a fuckin' whisper of uncertainty, neither, 'cause this is Levy, earnest, endlessly extraordinary, lion-hearted Levy, the Shrimp-shaped center of his whole fucking Universe. 

He's put this off long enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is pure fanservice. now with 100% more SMOOCHES.


	6. the final distance

Ultimately, _Levy's_ the one who closes the final distance between 'em, fingers whisperin' over his collar and pushin' back into his hair n' lockin' together at his nape, just as her lips brush tender-soft against his. Then, with the feather-light coercion of her hands, cradled at the base of his neck, urgin' him forward, he leans down further still, and she kisses him again -for _real_.

Levy takes the lead, which he cedes without complaint, and -to his pleasant fuckin' surprise- it ain't the clumsy-nervous, tentative exploration he's expectin'. It's raw, and hungry, and there's tongue n' teeth n' heat, growin' strong n' steady between 'em.

It _does_ take some adjustin'; for all her enthusiasm, she's still a petite little thing, and he spends an initial stretch hunched over, tryin' to accommodate her n' endin' up with one helluva fuckin' crick in his neck n' spine. He ignores the ache 'til he can't, and then, in whatever fuzzy, far-off part of his mind's still capable of slappin' together a coherent fuckin' thought, he realizes there's an easy 'nough solution to this problem, and wastes no time scoopin' her up n' securin' her around his waist.

Emboldened by her lack of objection to this adjustment, Gajeel anchors her with one hand braced at the base of her spine, and gives the other leave to slide ginger-bold 'cross the underside of her thigh, where it drags to a reluctant halt only when it hits the back of her left knee. Determinedly, he locks his fingers into place, and resolves not to move 'em again...unless prompted. (Booze-fog or no, this's Levy's show, n' he means not to push her. It's on her how far n' fast they go.)

Levy immediately leverages her position, pushin' herself forward and _up_ , so she's not only flush against him, she's also lookin' down on him. This new arrangement -for reasons beyond his present ability to understand- _does somethin'_ to him, and to her, as well. It changes everything.

She cinches her legs tight where they're pressin' into him, hooks 'em together behind his back, and deepens the kiss; the frenzy of it subsides even as its overall intensity's kickin' into fuckin' overdrive, throbbin' tangible in the ever-diminishin' space between 'em. Meanwhile, the hands he'd intended on keepin' still are instead dancin' up the length of her spine, sweepin' back over her thigh, lingerin' a beat where the curve of her ass meets her hip, skimmin' up her side and tearin' reckless toward second base, where he expects he'll likely loiter a spell...

 _So much for takin' this fuckin' slow_ , he thinks vaguely, not sorry in the slightest.

In any case, for her part, Levy doesn't seem to be in any terrible rush to stop him. _Her_ hands ain't 'xactly been idle, and are in fact currently slippin' surreptitious under the metal collar of his tunic, the tips of her fingers makin' lazy circles just beyond the studded lapels.

When at last he pulls back to drag in a much needed breath of air, she graciously gives him time to recover, 'pparently not winded at all herself (which gives him an uncomfortable reminder of the first time he'd discovered Levy's astonishing lung capacity), and twists herself sinuous in his arms to lay a sprinklin' of light, sweet kisses along his jawline. This culminates in her teeth, nippin' at his ear, tongue rollin' warm along the shell, and he's so surprised he near drops her. For one wild instant she clings to him, while Gajeel tries to remember how his arms fuckin' work. In the meantime, he's starin' dumb at his Spark, like he's seein' her for the first fuckin' time. And just like the _actual_ first time he laid eyes on her, he warns himself to be wary of takin' this particular Fairy lightly.

Then, incredulously settlin' into this new reality where Levy _ain't_ the blushin' little mage he's always figured her for, he goes on the offensive. He kisses her fierce, like a man starvin' or drownin' or fuckin' _dying_ -cause that's how it half-fuckin' feels. She's holdin' on for dear life, doin' her damndest to match his feverish new pace, and she's definitely runnin' outta fuckin' breath now, alternatively gaspin' and sighin' and squirmin' about as she is. He ain't proper sure when it happens, but somewhere in the midst of him uppin' the ante, she ends up wedged between himself n' the bookcase previously at his back, one of his hands ends up on her hip, _under_ her dress, and she ends up keenin' his name in a way that makes him feel like someone's chucked him into a goddamn oven and set that shitty Salamander bastard on the task of roastin' him alive. It's a jarrin', surreal kinda moment that sends him flyin' back unwillin' to _**That Fucking Night**_ , the night he met her, when she first named him, with the full weight of her anger, despair, and terror minglin' heavy in her voice.

He tries to ignore it; things're heatin' up, it's gettin' better n' better, n' at some point her spell winks out n' plunges 'em into darkness, which suits the kinda activities he's got in mind _just fine_ , n' he's all fire and nerves and euphoria, n' the last thing on his mind is fuckin' _stopping_ -but he does, wrenchin' back with a loud curse and the barely restrained impulse to punch something. (Levy would _not_ 've taken well to him destroyin' one of her precious bookcases.)

Gajeel senses her confusion, though the dark makes it hard to tell exactly how she's reactin' to the sudden disengagement. At length, fingers gentlin' at either side of his face, he feels her drawin' in again, her breath warm against his mouth.

And, though it fuckin' kills him to avoid her, to turn his head away n' not just let her help him forget all about it-

"I'm sorry." Direct n' unadorned, the words tear away from him like flesh from fuckin' skin, but he says it, n' he means it, 'cause for all the fuckin' magic in all the fuckin' world, ain't no way to rewind time n' undo what he'd done. Which is why he full well intends on spendin' the rest of his days makin' up for it, protectin' her and her - _their_ \- Guild and her idiots, all.

She's close enough n' his sight's just good enough that he can see her face softening around a smile, n' then her eyes are flutterin' open, sloe-black in the gloom and oh-so-close.

She kisses him again, a chaste, lingerin' affair that has him holdin' his breath, bracin' himself against a sudden, violent wash of happiness, clawin' its way to the surface, too potent to deny.

Then, "I know."

In spite of himself, his mouth cuts up in a grin.

/-/

Sometime later, Levy's restin' on his lap where he's sittin' back-to-stacks, head pillowed on his shoulder, idly playin' with his hair. He's been fightin' off sleep for goin' on an hour.

Out of the dark, "I thought you weren't planning to pay any more attention to me 'til I got stronger." She says, n' there's a smug note to the remark that has him smirkin'.

"Yeah, well, I'm a fuckin' idiot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple notes: first, jet's 'girlfriend' is totally canon -at least insofar as the character notes at the beginning of one of the manga chapters indicate.
> 
> also, in case it was too ambiguous: yes, sex.
> 
> and. if you were as surprised as gajeel that levy's secretly a VIXEN, well. her two best pals are doods who've spent literal years going cuckoo for levy's cocoa puffs --there's no way these three didn't do their fair share of Experimenting when the dreaded puberto rolled around for a stay. natch, they were close enough to survive the fallout when levy realized makin' out was fun and all, but that she didn't *like* like either one of her best bros. buuuut, she learned PLENTY, and gajeel is now reaping the benefits. (turns out he's got a lot more to thank shadow gear for than he realizes. XD) #HEADCANON.
> 
> thanks for reading, my lovelies, and drop me a line so we can nerd out over these lovable doofs. and don't forget to hit up rusky boz, gajevy's patron saint, and let her know she's amazing!
> 
> stay frosty, chums.


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